Don’t Tell Me What I Can’t Do

“You’ll never lose the baby weight.”

“You’ll never be able to lift that cat litter.”

“You’ll never finish a 5K, let alone a half marathon.”

“You’re too old for ballet.”

“You’ll hurt yourself.”

Yup, I’ve heard a lot from naysayers. And when I think of the naysayers, I think of John Locke in LOST: wheelchair-bound after being pushed out of a window by his biological father, living an Office Space-esque existence working for a box company, with each day more pointless than the last. He has had enough and decides he’s going to fly to Australia to do a walkabout (despite the fact that he can’t walk). And he’s denied it, but when the plane crashes, John Locke becomes a formidable hunter on the island. He’s walking again. He’s the strong man he wanted to be.

I’m no John Locke, and it doesn’t take a plane crash for me to become my strongest self (and it shouldn’t be for you, either). But every time I hear one of those “you can’t” phrases, it becomes a challenge. Granted, I’m not going to do a clean with a loaded barbell until I’ve been taught how to do it properly with a PVC pipe, nor will I run a marathon without training for it. I’ll take the steps I need to do it, and I’ll do it.

And if I feel like climbing a public fence for fun after I finish a run? I’m Spiderwoman.